


Strange Darling

by stardropdream



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, M/M, Magical Realism, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Time Travel, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 08:24:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11180841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: Sixteen-year-old Victor time travels to the future. Yuuri's the one who has to deal with that damage, all the while missinghisVictor. The most unsettling thing of all: it's very difficult to read this Victor.





	Strange Darling

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for a tumblr prompt asking for a de-aged victuuri fic in some capacity. I've seen a few de-aged Victor fics, but not many from Yuuri's pov, so I wanted to try it that way. I subscribe to the other fics' tendencies to just Not Explain how the time-travel is even possible and just accepts that it's a Thing that happens in this universe, so hurray for magical realism.

When Victor first _appears_ , Yuuri finds himself wholly unprepared for it. After all, it isn’t as if he’d ever expected this to happen. It isn’t that it’s an all-around impossible happening – there are reports all the time about the Mishaps like these, the little hiccups in time – but it’s the first time it’s ever happened to Yuuri. Or, more accurately, around Yuuri. 

“V— Victor?” Yuuri hiccups out, a ridiculous, strangled sound. As if he doesn’t know the answer, as if he wouldn’t recognize Victor no matter the Mishap. 

Sixteen-year-old Victor Nikiforov is as lovely as Yuuri remembers – long hair, unreceding hairline, missing a few centimeters of height, the smallest glimmer of acne scars now that he isn’t caked in make-up for performance, the littlest peach fuzz on his upper lip—

—except now he seems so much younger than Yuuri remembers. He remembers sixteen-year-old Victor through the memories of a twelve-year-old. It’s dissonance to be in his twenties and see a teenager, someone _around Yurio’s age, even_ and recognize that he is his coach, only in the past. 

It makes sense that it should create some cognitive dissonance. It is, after all, the only time Yuuri will ever be older than Victor. That doesn’t mean Yuuri isn’t nursing a strange headache from the time-space continuum shenanigans this introduces. There are Self Help books about Preparing for Mishaps like this, but Yuuri’s never cracked one open and he isn’t sure if it’s going to help him now.

Victor, for his part, handles the sudden time-travel/de-aging Mishap with all the grace and surety that a teenager on top of the world can. He flips his hair, smiles that wide, camera-ready smile, and speaks in a slightly accented English to compensate for his lack of Japanese and Yuuri’s struggling Russian. 

“Who are you?” Victor asks pleasantly, cheerful enough – but it only flashes Yuuri back to years ago, to _Commemorative photo? Sure!_ and it isn’t Victor’s fault and it isn’t the same thing, because of course _his_ Victor knows him. His Victor loves him. This is not his Victor, but rather a shadow of him having wrenched forward in time, or warped his cells down to a reversed aging – whatever it is that explains these phenomena. 

Something in his heart pings, at least, and he ignores it – and instead smiles, as pleasantly as possible, matching the sunniness of Victor’s own polite and distant smile, “My name is Yuuri Katsuki.” 

 

-

 

Remarkably, or perhaps not so remarkably, Victor adapts well to the situation. 

“Oh,” he says, sunnily, “I’m not sure how I got here. But that’s how surprises work, isn’t it?”

Yuuri nods mutely and desperately finishes dialing Yakov’s number on his phone, hands shaking. He exudes calm – at least, he hopes so, he feels like he’s sweating furiously. But he doesn’t want to stress Victor out, who continues to smile sweetly at him, perfect posture and politeness. Distant. Not like the Victor he knows at all. 

Yurio slamming onto the scene helps abate Yuuri’s nerves, if only because Yurio takes one look at Victor, shrieks _What the hell!?_ in English, and then fires off into a rapid Russian conversation with Victor. It’s the first time that Victor looks shocked – at the display, at the complete lack of politeness and refinement in Yurio’s _everything_ , but he seems to cheer up as he starts responding to Yurio, even laughing at some of Yurio’s more demonstrative displays of frustration. 

Yuri and Victor get along surprisingly well. They speak to one another in rapid-fire Russian that leaves Yuuri’s head spinning a little (realizing, painfully, how slowly Victor must speak Russian for him on regular occasions). 

Yuri must be going through his typical smug recounting his gold medal win during his senior debut – _Younger than your debut, too, old man!_ – when Victor’s polite expression chips away into something more heatedly competitive. 

“Show me,” Victor demands, sharp Russian that Yuuri picks up.

Yuuri watches, torn between worried and fond, as the two teenagers take to the ice to show off one another’s skills. Just to be snide, Yuri launches into a quad salchow right away. Victor counters with, unsurprisingly, his signature quad flip. 

Yes, Yuuri is definitely fond. He watches them at the blocks for a short while, knowing that he should be training himself – he was working on his own quad flips today, really, in anticipation for next season – and yet he’s distracted watching a young Victor train. Or, rather, show off against Yurio. 

“Be careful,” Yuuri calls out when Yurio tries to launch into a frustrated jump combination and lands a little wobbly. Yakov might actually kill Yuuri if he doesn’t step in to keep Yurio from pushing himself when he’s still growing. 

Victor, though, is the one to react – swiveling his head around to look at Yuuri in a quiet kind of observation. Yuuri has no idea how to read that expression. Yuuri thought he was good at reading Victor now. Clearly the Mishap wants to prove him otherwise. 

 

-

 

Yurio and Victor are still skating together when Yakov shows up. He groans loudly when he catches sight of his two pupils spinning around the rink together. 

Yuuri’s interactions with Yakov since moving to St. Petersburg have been slightly understated and brief; despite skating on the same rink as Yakov’s skaters, he is decided not Yakov’s pupil. Both Yakov and Yuuri are adamant about that divide – Yuuri’s allegiance strictly to Victor as his coach, and Yakov wanting to avoid the headache that is Victor’s whining if he dared to offer criticism to his pupil. 

Yakov, for his part, has given Yuuri advice. Occasionally, and usually in passing – sounding suspiciously like Victor. Or, rather, Victor just sounds like Yakov when he’s coaching. It’s a little endearing, although Yuuri would never say it. 

He thinks – or at least Victor told him once – that Yakov likes Yuuri just fine. If anything, Yuuri is more polite than most of his skaters. He’s also stubborn, of course, but that’s a staple of all skaters at the rink. 

“Maybe he should go with you,” Yuuri says, thinking of his and Victor’s apartment and thinking of a sixteen-year-old Victor going back to that apartment. He blushes a little, embarrassed and mortified. “He’d – I’m sure Victor would be more comfortable being with the people he actually knows.” 

Yakov grunts, undoubtedly thinking about the mayhem that bringing Victor back to his apartment would bring. The apartment where Yuri lives with Yakov’s ex-wife. 

Yuuri knows Yakov is going to say no before he says it. 

“Vitya is used to staying in hotels, places he doesn’t know,” Yakov says gruffly. He eyes Yuuri, takes in his expression. “You think he’d be happier with me? No. I doubt it.” 

Yuuri doesn’t want to make Victor uncomfortable, though. It is at once the Victor he knows and a stranger – and the last thing he wants is for Victor to dislike him, to distrust him. 

He doesn’t know if he could handle a Victor who doesn’t even like him; he’s lived his life, too many years, with Victor not knowing who he is. He doesn’t want to go back to that, or to a worse situation. 

“I’ll talk to him,” Yakov gruffs out and then shouts for Victor to come over to him. Yuuri slinks away to get himself some water. 

 

-

 

When Yuuri returns, after some gentle, friendly goading from Yurio (who would never describe it as gentle or friendly, but Yuuri knows better), it’s with a freshly filled water bottle in hand. 

He watches Yakov and Victor discuss, only catching the tail-end snippets of some Russian. There’s a distinct whine to Victor’s voice even though he’s smiling. It seems Yurio isn’t the only one goading today. Yakov looks like he’s going to have a conniption. 

Yuuri smiles to himself, despite everything about this Mishap situation. It’s almost familiar. How many days has Yuuri spent training here, his choreography sessions with Victor interrupted by Victor and Yakov talking just like this? 

It’s only been a couple hours into this Mishap and already Yuuri’s heart aches for _his_ Victor. 

 

-

 

It’s decided Victor will stay with Yuuri. 

“Yuuri,” Victor declares, smiling at him with that same disarming sunniness, “I hope I won’t be a bother.” 

He says it with the surety that he _won’t_ be. He’s right, of course – Yuuri could never find Victor to be a bother. Bothersome at times, perhaps, but always a welcomed addition to Yuuri’s life. 

“Is it alright if I keep skating? With Yakov here, I don’t have to interrupt my training!” Victor chirps out, again with the surety that Yuuri isn’t going to say no. It isn’t really a question or permission so much as a proclamation of how the rest of the day will go. 

Yuuri doesn’t protest; he isn’t sure if he could concentrate on his own routine today. He’s do for some dry-conditioning anyway. 

“Sure,” Yuuri says, and tries to smile. But Victor is already skating away, doing a few circles around Yurio just to draw out a loud squawk of outrage from him. 

Yuuri watches him go, quiet. 

 

-

 

Yuuri’s in the middle of stretching out when he feels someone looking at him. Feeling those pinpricks of someone’s gaze, Yuuri looks up. 

Victor looks at him, utterly ignoring Yuri who’s saying some crude beside him, trying to goad Victor back into a jump-off despite Yakov’s shouting protests from the farther end of the rinkside. 

Yuuri freezes up. Blinks once. Offers a wobbly smile – calm, calm, he must exude calm. He understands this situation. He is prepared for this situation. 

Victor stares at him, unashamed of his staring, not even trying to hide it. 

Not unlike his older self, in that respect – Victor never makes it a secret when he’s staring at Yuuri. At least with _his_ Victor, Victor will likely stare and then coo out some sort of praise, some sort of observation – reach for Yuuri and hold him close and safe. 

Here, Victor stares at him and says nothing. Yuuri swallows thickly, sure that what Victor sees is only lacking, only someone plain and uninteresting. To this Victor, he is no one, just another skater under Yakov. 

Yuuri stares back at Victor – lets himself look, hopes he does not look quite as caught as he feels.

Victor is so painfully young, soft in a way that the older Victor is not – the barest hint of roundness in his cheeks. How had Yuuri never noticed that when he was a child looking up to this Victor?

 

-

 

At the end of the day, Victor follows Yuuri home. Their walk home is quiet. At first, at least.

Victor is studying him. “You don’t really know Russian.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says, flushed in embarrassment. “Yes, that’s true. I’m still learning.” 

He’s usually quick with picking up language – he’s more fluent in English than Victor is, if only for his time spent in Detroit. He knows it’s only a matter of time before he has at least conversational mastery of Russian. But it’s difficult to focus on language-learning when he’s focusing so much on skating. Unlike in Detroit, he doesn’t have classes to attend in addition to practice. 

“Why are you in St. Petersburg?” Victor asks him. “Yakov didn’t train you at all today.” 

Yuuri sighs out, debating the merits of lying or telling the truth. Lying to Victor will never sit right with him, even in these circumstances. He’s done too many lies by omission in their first year of knowing one another and Yuuri’s trying to make up for that now. But telling him the truth – Yuuri has no idea how teenaged Victor would react. 

“I have a different coach,” Yuuri settles on. He bites his lip and settles for being honest, “Victor, I’m not sure how much I should tell you. I don’t want to overwhelm you.”

Victor hums and tilts his head. Some of his silver hair spills out from over his shoulder. “Oh,” he says, accepting this. “That’s true – I do like surprises. But it’s not like learning what a rink mate does will ruin surprises about me. It’s not like me asking about my future routines, right?”

“Right,” Yuuri says faintly, his body cold at the dismissal; no, why should anything Yuuri does affect Victor? He isn’t anybody.

Victor peers up at him. 

Yuuri sighs out. “You’re my coach, Victor.” 

That does seem to surprise Victor – and Yuuri, despite himself, thrills at surprising Victor. He always has. He always will. 

Victor considers this new information, frowning. “Oh,” he says, and it sounds more weighted. He frowns more, and actually looks sad for the first time. “I guess it’s… I know that I’ll have to retire someday. I didn’t—”

“Oh, no,” Yuuri interrupts quickly. “You still skate competitively, too.” 

Victor’s frown looks less heartbroken (thank goodness, Yuuri thinks) and more profoundly confused. He asks, “I do both?”

“Yes,” Yuuri answers. They’re nearing the apartment. 

“Why?” Victor asks, scrunching up his brow as he considers this information.

Yuuri laughs quietly, his heart racing, and fidgets a little – running his hand through his hair. His ring catches the light and he sees the exact moment that Victor’s eyes glance at it and then away again, seeing no significance to the artifact of their love and promises to each other. It hurts more than it should. 

“It’s a long story,” he says, faintly. 

“I guess I don’t need to know,” Victor says, kicking at a pebble on the sidewalk. When he looks up at Yuuri again, his smile is that same sunny, camera-ready one. “I don’t want to ruin any surprises about me, okay?” 

“Okay,” Yuuri agrees and leads Victor into the building. 

He’s saved from continuing this conversation by Makkachin. When he opens the door, he comes ambling towards them. Victor takes one look at the older, steadier Makkachin with grey around his muzzle and brightens up considerably.

He drops to his knees, opens his arms, and gushes out in frenzied, babied Russian – taking his suddenly-dog-not-puppy into his arms and cuddling into his soft, curly fur. He looks almost as happy as when he was skating with Yurio. He hasn’t looked that happy at any point talking to Yuuri today. 

Yuuri leaves him alone with Makkachin, heading to the kitchen to prepare a simple dinner. Victor spends the rest of the evening wrapped up around Makkachin, who accepts this younger version of his master with all the grace and dignity befitting a poodle. Namely, Makkachin licks at Victor’s face and flops on him while they lay sprawled out on the coach. Victor gushes and coos at Makkachin happily, playing with his floppy ears the way Yuuri does sometimes. 

Yuuri’s heart aches. 

 

-

 

“You can take the bed,” Yuuri tells him later that evening, after they’ve eaten a quiet, simple dinner and Victor has taken Makkachin out on a nightly walk. “I have it all set up for you.”

Victor finally looks away from Makkachin, studying Yuuri instead. His face is painfully inscrutable and Yuuri finds that to be the most unnerving of all – that he is looking at the younger face of someone he loves and can’t read him at all. It doesn’t suit Victor at all, someone who is open and uninhibited when it comes to any conversation with Yuuri. Yuuri dislikes it profoundly. 

“You mean, our bed,” Victor says, steady and unreadable. 

Yuuri actually startles. He knows Victor’s spent the evening looking around the apartment. The one, single bed is obvious – a separate bed conspicuous in its absence. 

Victor strokes his hand over Makkachin’s head. “Or…” he pauses, considering, and turns back to Makkachin, kissing his nose sweetly, “You mean: Victor and Yuuri’s bed.” 

Yuuri flounders a little. “Ah – yes.” 

“Hmm,” Victor hums, thoughtfully. After a pause, he says, “You wear a ring.” 

Yuuri looks down helplessly at the ring on his hand. He isn’t necessarily hiding it – or anything as it relates to Victor. But Victor – this Victor – hasn’t even been here a full day and it feels slightly disconcerting that Victor’s spent the entire day putting two and two together instead of asking Yuuri outright. He isn’t sure if Victor’s somehow gotten the wrong idea, or is thinking disparaging thoughts. 

After all, he is not likely what a young Victor imagined he’d end up with in ten plus years. Yuuri can only imagine that he comes up short, that Victor is studying him and finding him lacking. Plain, boring, exceptionally unremarkable. He knows that – that _his_ Victor loves him, but it is still murky for him to try to understand _how_. 

Of course this Victor could only be disappointed. 

“Yuuri,” Victor says, and Yuuri’s heart actually cracks because it sounds just like the way _his_ Victor says it, with that slight lilt, elongated. But it lacks that same familiarity, that comfort of a name on your mouth you’ve been saying for years and years. It lacks any sort of love.

“Yes?” Yuuri asks, his thumb passing over his ring once before he drops his hands and looks at Victor. 

Victor blinks once, expression serene as he says, pleasantly, “Thank you for the bed. I’m sure I’ll sleep well.” 

 

-

 

Watching Victor skate is something like a miracle, no matter what age Victor is and no matter what age Yuuri is. 

He’s never seen this Victor practice before, only remembers the final performances on a fuzzy old television screen with Yuuko, watching his performances live regardless of the time difference and regardless of whether they had school in the morning. It’s nice, to watch Victor practice – but strange all the same. It’s a little like an illusion shattering. 

He watches Victor stumble through his quads and it’s remarkable to think Victor a novice at anything, a beginner of anything. Of course he would be. Of course he’d need to practice. And it isn’t as if Yuuri hasn’t seen Victor stumbling through practice nowadays, too. But it’s different now. Something breaking apart at the seams, that perfect image of the first moment he ever saw Victor skating – that first moment he ever fell in love with him. One of many. 

Victor’s step sequences are downright _sloppy._ Yuuri’s heard Victor praise his step sequences enough times to know that they’re Yuuri’s own strength, but it’s another thing entirely to see the young Victor practicing and know exactly how much time, energy, and effort Victor had to devote in order to achieve the beautiful step sequences he uses today. 

After the third fall on a quad, Yakov finally looks away from where he’s helping Yuri with his program and barks out, “Vitya, give it a rest!” 

And then sends an accusing look at Yuuri as if to say, _You’re letting this idiot do this?_ as if somehow Yuuri is the coach. It isn’t as if Yakov gave him any instructions, but perhaps it was implied. 

Victor’s skating over towards him, stopping at the blocks and looking frustrated, snatching up his water bottle and downing a large drink. 

“Are you alright?” Yuuri asks, feeling that strange sensation of coaching his coach. 

Victor’s sunny expression floats across his face and he smiles brightly at Yuuri. “I’m fine. I just need to keep practicing!” 

“It might be your hair,” Yuuri says, hoping he doesn’t sound accusing. “It might be too long. It’s getting in your eyes.” 

Normally Victor ties it back, during competitions. Did tie it back, during competitions. 

Victor purses his lips together, studying Yuuri. Then he sniffs. 

Yuuri, who has never had to braid anything in his life, watches mesmerized as Victor hurries through his long hair, twisting it into an intricate braid and then curling it up into a bun at the back of his head, snapping it into place with one of the elastic bands around his wrist. The whole thing takes less than a minute and Yuuri feels more surprised than seeing Victor fail a quad flip. 

“Wow,” Yuuri says, somewhat helplessly and watches as a young Victor actually _preens –_ looking so much like his older self, it’s almost shocking. 

 

-

 

Yuuri stays up that night watching videos online to learn how to braid hair; he doubts Victor will ever ask him for that, but – somehow, it’s something he wants to know how to do. 

 

-

 

He misses his Victor with an ache that feels unreal, heavy in his chest and unrelenting, squeezing his lungs closed. 

 

-

 

“You haven’t practiced at all,” Victor tells him. 

“I’ve been dry-conditioning,” Yuuri answers. Really, he’s avoiding the rink. He can’t very well practice the way he needs to without Victor’s guidance on the choreography, and it seems better to clear the way for Victor to practice. 

Victor studies him, looking almost petulant for a moment. He stares at Yuuri, expectantly. But Yuuri has no idea what he’s waiting for.

Finally, Victor asks, “Are you any good, then?” 

Yuuri blinks at him. “Oh—”

Yurio, sitting on the bench on rink side, taking a break from morning practice, looks up from his phone where he’s texting Otabek Altin with a derisive snort. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he snaps at Victor, who stares at Yuuri for a second too long before he slowly slides his gaze towards Yurio. He’s likely doing it to goad Yuri on. 

It works. Yuri bristles at the general lack of urgency Victor pays him. 

“I’m not,” Victor says, cheerfully. 

“The pig’s won medals, you know,” Yurio snaps, slamming his phone down onto the bench. Yuuri flinches, wondering how many phones Yurio has destroyed in his fits of rage. He points an accusing finger at Victor. “He can even do a quad flip, you stupid jerk!”

Yuuri can’t even spare a moment to feel warm all over that Yurio is defending him, because Victor snaps his eyes back to Yuuri and assesses him. He looks disbelieving – curious, but disbelieving.

“Really?” he asks, like it’s a joke.

Yuuri in that moment feels as he does whenever Victor questions Yuuri’s ability to push himself. _Maybe we should cut out one of the quads, Yuuri,_ or _Today Yuuri should just aim for a personal best!,_ or _Yuuri, don’t practice any jumps before your skate,_ or _Yuuri, you can’t possibly go a fifth round, you must be tired,_ or _Yuuri let’s just forget about finding this shop and go back home,_ or _Yuuri, maybe we should put Russian practice aside for the night,_ or _Yuuri—_

Wordlessly, Yuuri snaps off his skate guards and hands it to Victor. Or, more likely, shoves it into his hands. It’s incredibly childish – he’s supposed to be the adult here, after all – but he doesn’t think to care, skating out onto the ice, turning so he’s facing Victor – and Yurio, who’s joined him at the rink’s edge. 

He doesn’t even bother with a series of figure-eights or step-sequences, he just launches straight into the jump. He slices through the air, spinning four times, and landing the quad flip with the kind of effortlessness that he wishes he could capture in his performances. There’s something to be said about his frustration and competitiveness. 

He locks eyes with Victor, who’s wide-eyed. _Good._

For good measure, he launches into a second flip, and lands that one, too. Perhaps a little under-rotated, but that’s not the point. 

He does a series of spins and step sequences – just to show, just to _prove himself_ to a sixteen-year-old, how pathetic – and a few more jumps, just to prove that he can, before he slides to a stop in front of Yurio and Victor.

Yuuri doesn’t say anything as petulant as _Told you so_ or _You were saying?_

It’s okay, because Yurio says it for him: “See? Idiot.” 

Victor says nothing, just stares at him with wide, painfully blue eyes. 

After a stilled moment, he whispers, “Wow.” 

 

-

 

Yuuri doesn’t mean to copy Victor, not really. But he recognizes the routine that Victor is practicing, remembers watching that same routine and then copying it with Yuuko days later at Ice Castle. It’s a strange string of nostalgia that brings Yuuri out onto the ice, warming up to practice his routine for this year – his theme this year is _return_ , somewhat ironic now given the sixteen-year-old coach that orbits around him – and finding himself falling into Victor’s performance. 

Naturally, Victor notices. 

“That’s my routine,” Victor tells him, staring with wide eyes – that same beautiful blue that makes Yuuri’s entire being yell out for another. This is Victor and not Victor at once. 

“Oh,” Yuuri says. Somehow, he doesn’t feel embarrassed – only pleased he did well enough that Victor could recognize it. “Yes.” 

Victor frowns, thoughtfully, studying him. “Except those step sequences. Those were different.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says, again. “Well. I might have misremembered it.” 

He hasn’t misremembered. He knows this routine almost by heart – it was one of his favorites that Victor’s performed, aside from the first performance he ever saw from Victor, aside from _Stay Close to Me_ ’s duet, which will always be _theirs_. But he knows this one well. And he knows that Victor’s step sequences have been all wrong in practice, Yakov too focused on Yuri to point as much out. 

Victor stares at him with an intensity different from the last few days. Now he tells Yuuri, “Skate it again.”

Yuuri does – and Victor studies him. Victor doesn’t take his eyes off of him. 

Later, Yuuri watches Victor practice his routine, now with a different step sequence – the step sequence that Yuuri remembers – and Yuuri briefly agonizes over the time-space continuum he might have just destroyed; he knows that Victor will not remember this visit, will wake up eventually back in Russia and think this all a long, sprawling dream – likely to fade completely from memory. But still. He feels uncertain for the rest of the afternoon. 

 

-

 

“You’re my fan,” Victor announces as they make their way home. 

“Yes,” Yuuri answers, since there’s no point in lying. 

Victor seems surprised by his easy acceptance of this accusation, and tilts his head. “I could tell – from your skating.” 

Yuuri’s mouth twitches up into a small smile. “Yes,” he says. “You told me that once, too.” 

“You’re rather talented,” Victor tells him.

Yuuri actually laughs, and Victor looks at him – startled. Yuuri gives him an apologetic smile and can’t help but say, “Ah – yes, sometimes, I suppose I am. I’ve beaten your world record, you know.” 

Victor doesn’t respond to the teasing, instead blinking a few times at him. 

Then Victor says, quietly, “You look so different when you smile.” 

Yuuri’s smile slips off his face in surprise. “Oh—”

Victor looks like he’s puzzling over something. He says, “It’s strange. You seem like such a sad person.” He smiles, all sunshine again. “I was beginning to wonder if you even _could_ smile. Glad to know you aren’t a sad guy, after all.”

_I’m not,_ Yuuri thinks, following after Victor on the walk back to their apartment. _It’s just that I’m missing you._

 

-

 

“Yuuri,” Victor asks. “Can you show me your step sequences again?”

Yuuri does. As if Yuuri could deny Victor anything. 

 

-

 

“When do I meet you?” Victor asks him that night as Yuuri’s making dinner.

Yuuri looks at him, stirring a little. Victor isn’t looking at him – instead he’s rubbing Makkachin’s belly, who’s sprawled out on the floor happily, soaking up the attention. 

“Won’t telling you ruin the surprise?” he asks, not unkindly. 

Victor says around a shrug, “I want to know.”

“When you’re twenty-seven,” Yuuri tells him. Technically twenty-six, he thinks, if the banquet counts. But he’s _definitely_ not telling Victor about the banquet. 

Victor wilts a little, his shoulders deflating. He looks downright disappointed. It makes Yuuri’s heart twist up.

“So long?” Victor asks. “That’s over ten years.” 

“Yes,” Yuuri says, gently, in quiet wonder at Victor’s profound disappointment. 

Victor says nothing, doesn’t look at Yuuri – just pays attention to Makkachin. He’s quiet. It’s strange to think Victor quiet, or capable of such a long silence. 

Then, quietly, Victor says, “I’m glad we could meet now, at least.” 

 

-

 

“So we’re married,” Victor asks – or more like observes – abruptly, “in the future.” 

“Ah,” Yuuri says, looking down somewhat self consciously at the ring on his right hand, then back up at Victor. “N- no, you misunderstand. It’s… it’s a little more complicated than that. It’s about – thanks, for everything you – Victor did up until now, and also that we might – that I might—”

Yuuri fumbles his way through the words and Victor stares at him with that intense concentration – trying to puzzle Yuuri out, he knows, but also trying to grasp the haphazard English thrown straight in his face. 

“Why did I want to marry you?” Victor asks, either misunderstanding Yuuri or blatantly ignoring Yuuri. The question itself is not asked cruelly – at least, not with malevolent cruelty, only the thoughtless cruelty of a teenager, and a teenaged Victor at that, speaking without recognizing what the words could mean. Distantly, Yuuri can identify that Victor is merely curious – can see it written plainly across his face, undisguised and open and raw, wanting so desperately to understand a future that’s sprawled before him in mutable details. 

Even a year ago, such a question would have caused Yuuri to fret, to spiral, to be certain that he was not worthy, that he was not worth it. Maybe a part of him still is. 

Now, he says, “I don’t know.”

And it’s the truth, because he doesn’t know – or, at least, that is a half truth. He knows Victor’s reasons but still fails on most days to see the Yuuri that Victor always smiles at, who gently calls him _my Yuuri_ with such reverence. 

Victor seems dissatisfied with the answer, and for good reason. Yuuri bites at his bottom lip, considering. 

“You love me,” Yuuri says, hoping that will be adequate and knowing that it isn’t.

Victor frowns. “Why do I love you?” 

Yuuri shrugs, helpless, flushed a little – never, in a million years, would he have guessed he’d have this conversation and he feels wholly underprepared and ill-equipped to answer the question. _You just do,_ will not be an acceptable answer, he knows. 

He struggles out a quiet, “I inspired you.” 

Victor nods a little, accepting this answer. “Your skating.”

“Yes, but,” Yuuri says, frowning and tapping his fingers against the blocks separating him from Victor, who looks beautiful and lovely on the ice, but heartbreakingly far away – a Victor that doesn’t exist anymore and yet stands here before him. “Also…” he trails off, blushing, and forces himself to say what Victor has told him before, “in life. And – um, in love.” 

Victor frowns more, puzzling out this new revelation. Yuuri bites his lip. 

“Okay,” Victor finally says, and there’s the slightest flush to his cheeks now, glancing away and fiddling with a long strand of his hair that’s come untucked from his braid. 

“Okay,” Yuuri parrots, breathing out a sigh of relief. 

 

-

 

The next day, out of nowhere, Victor skates a small circle around Yuuri and asks, “Why do you love me, then?”

“Ah—” Yuuri grunts out, nearly tripping over himself with the shock of such a question. 

Victor swirls in front of him and then skates backwards so he can keep looking at Yuuri who, helplessly, follows in his wake, always falling into Victor’s orbit. 

Yuuri flushes, despite himself. Victor looks quietly pleased even when Yuuri doesn’t actually answer him. 

 

-

 

Victor sits a little closer to him that night at dinner, close enough that their knees almost touch. 

_Oh,_ Yuuri thinks, distantly. 

Victor pauses, and looks up at Yuuri. This close, he can see the longing there. Slowly, this Victor looks more and more like _his_ Victor. Looking at Yuuri with quiet affection, with open longing and joy and pride. It’s different, seeing it from a sixteen-year-old. But it’s there – the beginnings of those looks, the beginnings of Victor’s love for him. 

This Victor is lonely. Instead of clinging to Makkachin, he follows Yuuri around the apartment, never close enough to touch, but close enough to be his shadow. 

Yuuri, guilty, misses his Victor desperately – and lets this Victor stay close. 

 

-

 

“I wish we could have met earlier,” Victor tells him one day. “If I remember this, maybe – maybe I’ll fly to Japan. I’ll find you.”

Yuuri smiles at him, not unkindly. “I’m pretty sure the younger me would be over the moon if you did that.” 

Both of them know it isn’t possible.

 

-

 

One night, sprawled on the coach, Yuuri can’t sleep. It’s quiet in the apartment, aside from the distant tinny sound. He can hear it through the walls – Victor using the computer to look up skating videos. He never looks up his own routines – that would, of course, ruin the surprise. 

Instead, Yuuri hears the music from his old routines. First those from before he met Victor, some from his days in Juniors. _Yuri on Ice_ plays at one point. 

He hears _On Love: Eros_ at least ten times in a night. 

Yuuri tries to fall asleep, tries not to think about it.

 

-

 

Yuri and Victor are doing dry-conditioning today, mostly on a combination of Yakov and Yuuri’s insistence. It means that Yuuri gets the ice to himself for the next hour or so, an opportunity for him to practice his routine. It’s been difficult doing so, without his coach to actually offer pointers on improvement. And with shepherding Victor around, he’s had little opportunity to practice. 

He skates – starting, presumably, for his routine for this season but it morphs, changes, and before he’s fully aware of it, he’s sliding through the beginning strings of _Stay Close to Me._ There’s no music, but he’s never needed that music – knows this routine, this song, this _feeling_ like it’s imprinted on his soul. He launches into the quad flip and lands it cleanly, and this is the part where Victor would join him. He reaches out his hand to grasp his, but of course this is a pairs skate that’s solo now, and he dances the part – has to waylay the jumps, but doesn’t fall into the original, solitary routine. The duet still, not the aria. No, this is his and Victor’s routine now and he can’t change that, will never change that.

He closes his eyes, breathing out, lets the music flow through his blood, direct his movements like an age-old itch. He doesn’t even have to think about it anymore, only thinks of Victor, who is absent, Victor who is not here. Victor—

This would be a lift, Victor’s hands warm and sure at his waist, holding him up and guiding him back down. He spins slowly across the ice, skates never leaving the ground. He holds his arms out, lets them slide through the air – where he’d be holding Victor in turn now, guiding him, directing him, their movements on the ice making Victor’s hair tickle his nose. 

When he comes back to himself, Victor is there at the blocks – he doesn’t clap, doesn’t make a sound. But somehow, Yuuri knows he’s there. He turns his head and sure enough, Victor is staring at him – eyes wide. He doesn’t cry, not quite, but his eyes look overfull and his expression is wobbly. 

_He’s so young,_ Yuuri thinks distantly, his heart pained and aching and heavy – and he thinks, again, of his Victor, far away from his arms now. He doesn’t know how long this Victor will stay. He misses his own terribly.

He offers a small smile as he skates over to meet Victor, who looks like he’s about to burst with something to say. 

“Victor,” he greets, warm and kind. 

Victor stares at him – and Yuuri likes to think he’s getting better at reading this Victor’s expressions, but it isn’t perfect, it isn’t flawless – and Yuuri doesn’t know what Victor is thinking. 

“I’m not him,” Victor tells him, or asks him, or begs him.

And Yuuri nods and says, “No.” It sounds harsh, just the simple word, so he adds, “But that’s okay. I’m enjoying getting to know you, too, you know.”

Victor doesn’t seem satisfied with the answer, although he doesn’t express that. 

He follows Yuuri around the rink for the rest of the day, shadowing him, mimicking his step sequences. 

 

-

 

Victor is quiet through the evening, eating his food, taking Makkachin on a walk, showering and getting ready for bed.

He looks at Yuuri for a long moment, as he’s about to retreat to bed. 

“Yuuri,” he says, his expression heavy with longing. 

“Yes?” Yuuri asks him, gentle. 

Victor glances down at his feet and then back up at Yuuri. He hesitates for half a second and then he walks towards Yuuri. Yuuri isn’t sure what to expect, but perhaps he should have been prepared for when Victor leans into his space and hugs him tight, wrapping his arms around him and _clinging._

Not unlike _his_ Victor. 

Victor squeezes him tight and Yuuri’s heart squeezes with him, feeling overwhelmed with longing and sadness. He clenches his eyes shut and hugs Victor back, holding him close. Victor’s shaking a little. 

“It’s okay,” Yuuri whispers into his hair, lifting one hand to pet through it. It’s still damp from the shower. Victor doesn’t say anything, but his breathing is hushed against his shoulder. Yuuri keeps petting his hair, holds him close, sways. “It’s okay to be lonely, Victor. It’ll be okay.”

“You’ll find me someday,” Victor mumbles, more a question than a statement – openly vulnerable in a way he hasn’t seen this Victor be before. 

Yuuri nods. He whispers, “Always. I promise.” 

Victor nods a little and says nothing more. Yuuri hugs him for a long time, holds him close until Victor is ready to untangle himself and head to bed. 

 

-

 

Later that night, sprawled out on the couch, Yuuri feels a weight press down on him. He tries to breathe out. 

“Yuuri,” a soft voice says, a twinge of desperation to the name, and Yuuri recognizes that voice, that cadence, the soft and loving way his name is spoken – the way no one else says it.

He snaps his eyes open and looks at Victor – _his_ Victor. 

“Oh,” he whispers, his voice overfull, tears already in his eyes, reaching his hands up to cup Victor’s face. He doesn’t let Victor speak, just leans up and kisses him – again and again, making up for lost time. Victor was right there, right there in front of him for almost two weeks, but it wasn’t _him_ – and now he’s here, back in his arms.

Victor is trying to speak, to apologize, to reassure, to tell him again and again that he loves him. But Yuuri doesn’t need to hear any of that, already knows it—

Reaches out to Victor and pulls him down, whispers his name against his mouth, smiles against Victor’s curving, gentle smile – that smile he means only for Yuuri.


End file.
